


The Gift of Permission

by wintergrey



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Desperation, Dom/sub, F/M, Friendship, Need, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, PTSD, Post-Coital Cuddling, Tears, Trust, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>How's it going?" he asks again. There's a different weight to the words.</p>
  <p>"I'm behaving."</p>
  <p>That's all she's going to say aloud but she knows her body language is speaking clearly enough: hands caught between her thighs, arms pressed inward against her breasts to increase the swell of them and the depth of her cleavage, body canted toward him as though drawn by a magnet. She could cover it up, easily, but she agreed she wouldn't. She agreed to all of this.</p>
</blockquote><br/>Another two off the prompt generator: celibacy & urgency
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of Permission

"How's it going?" Sam is sprawled in one of the lounges at Stark Tower, travel mug in one hand and tablet in the other. He's loose-limbed and centred, his dark skin and dull olive uniform a sharp contrast against all the sterile white of the lounge.

"Not bad. Who are we waiting on?" Team meeting is in minutes. Nat slides into a seat across from him. Being this close has her skin tingling. She can smell him from here, warmth and coffee and the mossy scent of his cologne.

"Damn near everybody from what I can tell." Sam spares her a look, black and glittering, from under his long lashes. "How's it going?" he asks again. There's a different weight to the words.

"I'm behaving."

That's all she's going to say aloud but she knows her body language is speaking clearly enough: hands caught between her thighs, arms pressed inward against her breasts to increase the swell of them and the depth of her cleavage, body canted toward him as though drawn by a magnet. She could cover it up, easily, but she agreed she wouldn't. She agreed to all of this.

"Good girl." Sam takes a drink of his coffee but there's a little curl at one corner of his mouth that's as good as a kiss.

Natasha knows this game. Deprive someone of everything and the smallest things become large, overwhelming. It's a delight to play the game to this end, with someone she trusts. Her lips are dry but licking them does little good.

"Drink?" Sam offers her the coffee.

Natasha has to lean in, hands on the table between them, to touch her mouth to it. The coffee is hot and bitter and ordinary but the wash of it over her tongue makes her aware that she's damp between her thighs already. A drop escapes as Sam pulls the mug away. He shifts to catch it with his thumb, then offers it to her.

"Bastard," Natasha breathes before taking his thumb in her mouth.

It's not his cock, which she's craving, but it's something. Her eyes flutter shut and she shivers as she sucks the taste of it off his skin and is left to explore the whorls and curves of his thumbprint before he pulls his hand away. A flush heats her cheeks and now she can feel the lace of her bra against her sensitive breasts. She's afraid if she shifts wrong or breathes too deeply, it'll push her to do something foolish. Unfettered and unfiltered, her libido runs hot, especially when she's been deprived so long.

"Language." Sam's disapproving murmur is tempered by the amusement in his eyes. Then, he gives her a slow wink. "There's a bathroom over there," he offers.

Bathroom? Natasha follows his glance over to the shadows of a side hall.

"In case you needed to take care of anything before the meeting." Sam goes back to reading his tablet.

"If I don't?" She's not going to jump on the chance just because she's desperate. Masturbation would be an immense relief but she's too canny to take the first offer, no matter how much she wants to come.

"Could be a while." Sam shrugs one shoulder.

He's unaffected. She tries not to think about him having sex with other people, she's sure he does, but the idea is so wildly distracting she won't survive. She knows Steve wants him and the idea of the two of them together, Steve all flushed and needy, riding Sam's cock--she'd almost pass up getting off herself to see that even once.

"I'll wait." He doesn't have to tell her there's no promises of reward if she does.

She's surprised at how cruel he can be. It's a cruelty she craves, though, so perhaps that's it. He's just giving her what she needs. A tender dominant is a gift if he only understands that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

"Don't." Sam isn't looking at her. He checks his watch then stretches out, propping his feet up on the table between them.

"Don't?" She doesn't understand.

"Don't wait. Take two minutes." Now he looks at her and there's a command in his calm gaze that makes her shiver. "I'm trusting you to do your best."

"To come?" Natasha can barely get the words out. She doesn't want to, she wants it to be him that makes her orgasm after so long without. "Sam."

"Or not." Sam gives her a little smile now, a real one. "But I expect you to try. Go on."

There are voices coming down the hall from the elevators, Clint and Thor talking sports at a rapid pace. "Yes, Sam." She wants to kiss his boots but doesn't dare. Instead, she makes her escape.

Two minutes. The honour system only works if everyone is honourable. Sam and Natasha work on the honour system. In the single toilet bathroom, she sets the timer on her watch for two minutes.

The rules are plain. Tits out. Natasha unbuttons her blouse rapidly, hangs it on the back of the door, undoes her bra in the front. She watches herself in the mirror as she bares her breasts, imagining Sam watching her from behind the glass.

As much as she wants to linger on the thought of him leaning against the other side of the mirror, maybe with his heavy cock in one hand, she can't dawdle in undoing her belt and slacks. Ass out. She pulls her panties down to the tops of her thighs with her slacks, tucking fabric under elastic to hold them up.

The woman in the mirror is gorgeous. Her red hair falls in smooth waves, she wears only a little makeup--dark mascara and red on the lips--but she doesn't need more. Her breasts are pale and full, her waist trim. She doesn't wax her pubic hair but it's groomed and short and silky. Sam tells Natasha to appreciate herself and she does even as she's being crude and to the point, pushing two fingers of one hand up into her wet pussy.

"Oh, God." The pleasure of having anything touch her, even her own fingers, nearly takes her to her knees.

She has to survive more than a minute of this without orgasming, pinching and pulling her nipples with her free hand as she masturbates. That is forbidden like everything else, her fingers on her breasts. Washing must be quick and efficient.

Quick and efficient. Perfunctory but not careless. Natasha writhes and whimpers, circling her clit with two slick fingers. _I'm trusting you to do your best._ Natasha slides three fingers of her free hand into her mouth, suckling them the way she wants to suck his cock, as her fingers on her clit move faster.

Her cunt is clenching now, her thighs are wet, and the tension of impending orgasm is building. Natasha whimpers protests in Russian even as she works herself to orgasm. It's too much, she can't wait. She pulls her fingers out of her mouth and presses them deep into her cunt, filling herself.

The protests are gone, now she's whispering, "Please, Sam, please," as she's about to come. She needs to come so badly, has no idea how she's going to keep from wailing when she finally climaxes. The chirping of her watch freezes her mid-gasp and then she sobs a little.

"Oh, God, no." Natasha doubles over with her hot forehead pressed to the cold chrome tap, her hands clenched into fists on the counter on either side of the sink. "You son of a bitch, you bastard, I'm going to kill you."

Of course Sam knows how long it takes her to come. He pays attention. He always pays attention to what people need. Natasha grinds her thighs together in frustration before she cleans up, rough paper towelling scraping between her ass cheeks and the sensitive folds of her labia.

Natasha puts herself back together, feeling shaky and emotional. Humiliated. She needed it and she gave up, she was willing to come. She lost, and it hurts on some level.

It startles her to feel so deeply conflicted over something she could control if she wanted. She can get off at any time. If she breaks the game, Sam will fuck her. Hell, he'll take her to bed and make love to her and never criticize her. But that's not the point.

Composed over her turmoil, Natasha washes her hands before she steps out to join the others. Almost everyone is here now. Sam is laughing at Steve as Steve helps him up from the couch. Casual. Easy. As though nothing is going on.

Sam catches up with her as they're walking into the meeting room, though. His hand on the small of her back is warm through her thin blouse, his voice is tender in her ear.

"Need to see me later?" he asks.

"Yes." Natasha gets the word out whole but has to swallow after.

"I was hoping." Sam lets his hand drift down just briefly and he gives her ass a nearly imperceptible squeeze before going to take his place opposite her at the table.

He was hoping. And just like that, Natasha's lighter inside, like he set her up to win instead of fail. She schools herself not to smile, not to look at him, but she can feel his eyes on her while Steve is speaking and she can tell he wears that little smile that's as good as a kiss.

After the meeting, training. The gun range is a wash of delicious sensation. Another day it might be too arousing, the kick and feedback from firing shot after shot. Today, it's just build up. The trickle of sweat down her back, the hum under her skin, is as good as foreplay.

Sam is training elsewhere, probably with Clint. There's something else Natasha wants to see. Maybe she just wants to watch anyone else have sex with Sam, to see if she's the only one he affects the way he does. Sam would be good for Clint, though, because he's good for her.

Natasha loves Clint, in the awkward and sideways way that they love each other, and it would make her happy to see him unwind for once. She doesn't just want to watch, she wants to share. Maybe she'll ask.

Without the firing range or statistics on past performances to distract her, Natasha is anxious to see Sam. She's tense and worried even though she knows he'll meet her in her apartment in the tower when he's ready. It's not for her to ask when he'll come, she has to make do with knowing he'll come. She has to trust him. It's hard to do when she needs him and he knows it.

She gets there first, strips down, and showers. Efficient and quick, just as she's supposed to do it. The ritual of disciplining herself is calming. She's braiding her hair back when the door chimes.

Sam doesn't knock, he simply lets himself in as though it's his place. For the moment, it is. Natasha hangs up her towel before she comes out to meet him. He must have showered downstairs. His skin is glossy and soft, he's wearing different clothes. She's not sure what she prefers--this, the worn T-shirt and jeans, or the uniform.

"Hey, pretty," he says easily. His eyes are reading her, not consuming her, and she loves that about him. "So, how pissed off were you today?" He drops into a chair she thinks of as his now. She only curls up in it when she wants to think about him in the evenings.

"Some," she admits, waiting with her hands behind her back for him to tell her where to put herself. Her cheeks heat with the memory of her need and her frustration. When a shiver of desire rolls through her, her nipples harden and her thighs tense reflexively. "A lot, really."

She isn't reading him. She doesn't try anymore, she'll let him instruct her, let him share his truths. Instead, she's watching the play of his muscles under his clothes, the flex of his thighs as he gets comfortable, the surge of his forearms as he grips the arms of the chair briefly. He's beautiful.

"Good." Sam's smile is shameless, bringing a fresh flush to her face. "Come here and tell me about it." He points to the spot between his feet. "Tell me about how much you want to come."

"What if I want to make you come?" Natasha does as she's told, though. She's always allowed to question, so long as she intends to obey. She kneels and Sam guides her to exactly where he wants her, his hands light on her shoulders. The position is always the same here, her feet together and knees apart, ass on her heels, hands behind her back.

"We could work something out if you're very good." Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You can tell me about that, too." His mouth is close enough for her to kiss without shifting from her place where he put her on her knees. "So talk. Today first."

"I felt stupid." The shame of it floods her and her eyes sting. "I gave up, I was ready to come. I wanted it so badly, Sam." With her knees apart, she can't clench her thighs against the arousal stirring in her. The air cools the wetness of her arousal as soon as it gathers in the soft curls between her thighs. She knows he can smell her; she can smell herself, sweet and fresh from her shower.

"We won't play that game, then." Sam kisses her forehead tenderly, then he cups her breasts in his hands. His touch is electric, Natasha whimpers and her toes curl. "I don't want you to feel stupid, baby."

"It's okay." Natasha shifts, trying to get some friction between her breasts and his palms. "I should have trusted you more. I didn't really want to come and you didn't let me. It was good."

"I like taking care of you." Sam pinches her nipples lightly between his thumbs and forefingers, too lightly and he knows it. He kisses her cheek, then her throat. She loves the little tickle of his facial hair where her skin is most sensitive. "You have anything else you want to talk about?"

"Are you fucking Steve?" Natasha is rewarded by his laughter against her skin and a sharp tweak of her nipples.

"You want me to?" Sam slides one hand down her belly, too slow, until his fingers brush her pubic hair.

"I think he wants you to," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "The way he looks at you. Sometimes it's like he's thinking about it already."

"Pretty sure Captain America can get laid without me. Besides, I'm busy lately." Sam taps one her nipples. "Hands," he orders lightly. Natasha doesn't try to hide her sigh of relief as she cups her own breasts. "You've been a good girl, you play with those."

Permission and praise at once are like sunlight washing over her skin. Natasha strokes her nipples to hardness, fondles her breasts until she's panting softly. At some point she closed her eyes and she can't remember when. She got lost in the pleasure of touching herself.

"That's so pretty," Sam murmurs. He slips his fingers lower, slides them over her slick labia, and Natasha whines in the back of her throat. He doesn't hesitate before pushing two fingers up into her so that she cries out.

"Sam, please." Now her eyes are open, searching his face. His smile is so sweet and enigmatic. She kisses it without permission as she rocks to fuck herself on his fingers.

Sam knows how to touch her inside to send pleasure sparking through her body. Just two fingers, pushed and twisted to give her the illusion of more without the satisfaction of being filled. The heel of his hand slides over her clit as she moves and she's already too close to coming, clenching around his fingers.

"Please, please, please." Natasha can't make any other words.

"Please make you come or please don't?" Sam's question is just a breath in her ear.

"Don't." The word is out before she can think.

Sam lets his fingers slide out of her as soon as she speaks but he doesn't take his hand away. He's not cruel that way, in the way that hurts her broken places. He lets her nestle her head on his shoulder and breathe against the curve of his neck for a moment.

"Whatever else you want," Sam murmurs in her ear, "you better beg for it at least that well. I was liking that part."

Natasha pulls back from her safe place to smile at him. She feels it in the curve of her mouth and at the corners of her eyes and in the tug on her heart, all the things she was schooled to control. Sam's expression is pure warmth, like the sun shining down on her.

"You." Natasha bites her lip, keeps her eyes on his face, as she slides her hands up his thighs. The denim is soft and she can feel his muscles tense reflexively under her touch, then relax. "I want your cock in my mouth."

Now he leans back in his chair--his chair in her home, her mind catches on that for a heartbeat--hands loose on the arms.

"Make me believe it," he says. Sometimes there's a wickedness in him that she knows is just for her. Things he wouldn't do to or for anyone else, he makes an exception for her.

"I think about you all the time." Natasha shifts slightly, just enough to make her breasts bounce as she closes in on him. When she lays one hand over his fly, she can feel him half-hard under her palm. She slides her thumb down the centre seam of his jeans. "I love your cock, Sam."

Her breathlessness is feigned, but only for the moment. She knows how to play the part but it's a little terrifying when it turns real for her. He might really say no, after she's exposed herself to him. She can't imagine anything worse right now. The image of him walking out on her, leaving her here naked and wanting, crystallises in her mind and leaves her cold with fear even though she wants him more by the second.

"Please, Sam." Natasha kisses the inseam along one of his thighs, head tilted to watch his expression. Calm but not disapproving.

Sam's jeans are soft under her mouth as she kisses up until she's mouthing the taut fabric over his balls. Like this, her breasts are crushed against the seat of the chair, rocking into the pressure brings pleasure and pain at once. Her kisses darken the denim under her mouth, she can feel him thicken to full hardness, straining against the fabric.

"Oh, please," she whimpers.

She curls her fingers in Sam's belt, clinging to him as she covers the head of his cock with her mouth, soaking his jeans with her saliva in hopes of drawing even a little of his taste through as she sucks. Her hips rock as though they're already fucking, without her permission. When she gets what she wants, when she tastes him, a tremor ripples through her and she whines hungrily.

"Sam." She lifts her head to look him in the eye. His calm is still nearly intact but she can read the dilation of his pupils clearly, anyone could, no training needed. And she can taste him, she knows his body needs release even if his composure won't break. "Please."

Natasha doesn't beg, she never begs for anything, but she does it now. Now, it won't stop, it rolls out of her between her gasps. She forgets to keep her hands still, scrabbles at his jeans, licks and kisses, scrapes her teeth over the barrier keeping her from what she needs so badly.

"Please, let me, please, I need your cock, Sam. Sam, please." Her voice catches, then breaks entirely. It's unbearable.

Natasha doesn't know what her hands are doing anymore, they're on his chest, on her breasts, in her hair, her fingers are in her mouth, then she's reaching for him again. Her body is aching, writhing without her permission, her thighs are wet with need.

"Sam, please." Now she's grabbing his hands, pressing them to her face, kissing his palms, deep-throating his fingers. Still, he won't give her what she needs. She can't breathe, can hardly speak past the tightness in her throat and the burning in her chest.

"I'll do anything. I promise, Sam." Natasha gives up on his hands. Finally, she bends to kiss his boots, same worn jump boots as this morning. She knows them well, leaves wet marks of her mouth over the toes and arches as she clings to the cuffs of his jeans. Somewhere, someone is making pitiful noises and she thinks it might be her.

"I believe you." Sam's voice is raw, as though something hurts. Then she feels the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zipper coming down. "Get up here, baby."

Natasha scrambles up his body without dignity until her lips slide against the head of his cock. Still, she looks to his face for permission, hands clenched into fists on his thighs. The taste of him is already in her mouth, he's right there, and she can't let herself take him until he gives her permission.

"Good girl." All she can see on Sam's face is approval. "You can have that."

Natasha takes him in all at once, nearly chokes on the length and girth of him. When she pulls back, it's only to do it again and again until her eyes burn with tears. He's so heavy and beautiful in her mouth; she loves being allowed to explore him with her lips and tongue.

Not now. All she wants now is to make him happy so he won't deny her again. Every time she takes him in, she can feel it inside her like being fucked. It's been so long. She swallows him down until her lips brush the tight curls at the base. If she keeps going like this, she's going to come before Sam does.

Natasha is rewarded by the ripples of tension in his body and the scrape of his boots on the floor, the creak of his chair as he shifts and arches with pleasure. When she takes him in all the way and swallows again, she shakes a moan out of him.

"Nat." Sam's hand is gentle on her burning cheek. "You want to get off on that?"

"Yes." She almost forgets to pull her mouth from his cock before answering. When Sam leans toward her a fraction of an inch, she pushes herself up and kisses him desperately. "Sam, please."

Sam pulls her up and turns her at the same time, guides her shaking body into place with her back to his chest, her legs slung wide over his. She has to hold the arms of his chair to support herself, she doesn't have permission to have him inside her yet. The effort of controlling herself makes her shake.

"Good girl," Sam murmurs. Then he's pulling her down and the hot head of his cock nudges her open. "You go ahead and come as many times as you want. Get it out of your system."

Toes braced on the floor, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, she fucks herself with his cock and comes in the first three thrusts. Natasha knows she's not supposed to be quiet but she never knew she could be this loud, not until Sam. This loud, this shameless, this desperate, this real.

When she collapses back against him, still riding him, he cups her breasts before stroking down her belly. Resting her head on his shoulder, she turns her head for a kiss and he gives her what she wants--one kiss after another--as he brings her to orgasm again with his fingers on her clit.

"Sam, Sam." Natasha murmurs his name over and over. His hair is so soft under her fingertips, his cheeks are so hot. She could touch him forever, his perfect dark skin and his long limbs and his lean muscles. "Come in me, please."

"Like this?" Sam pets up her thighs until he's sliding his fingers against where she's tight around his cock.

"Knees." Natasha feels drugged. Drunk, on him, on how good he is to her. "I want to come on my knees in your chair."

Sam really is that good to her. Natasha finds herself on her knees in his chair, kneeling on leather warm from his body, clutching the back of the chair. When she presses her face into the headrest, she can smell him there. She arches her back, tilts her hips up, offers herself up to him.

"Come for me one more time," Sam orders as he pushes into her again. "There's a good girl."

Sam fucks her slowly at first, hands gentle on her back and her hips. His touch soothes until she's supple and whimpering, rocking to meet his thrusts, and then it's arousing. The skate of his fingers up her spine, the fleeting grip on her hip as he shifts her so his next thrust makes her cry out with pleasure, every brush of his hands against her makes sparks flare under her skin.

"Sam, more." Natasha tightens around his cock, she needs more touch from him, on more of her. He knows, he reaches around to cup her breasts. The press of his palms against her tender flesh makes her shudder with a rush of urgency. "God, yes. I need to come."

Need. As soon as she says it, it's true. But Sam isn't impatient, he's never impatient, and it drives her mad. He lingers on her breasts, teasing them while he fucks her with long, hard strokes until she's shaking.

"Sam." Natasha's hands are white-knuckled on the back of the chair.

She doesn't have to beg this time. Sam anchors her with one hand knotted in her hair, pulls her back into him as he slides the other down her belly until his fingers find her clit.

Natasha comes for a third time, hard and slow at once, and Sam draws it out of her until she whimpers at the touch of his fingers on her sensitive skin. As she subsides, she pushes back against him until she's grinding her ass against his hips, demanding.

"You're such a good girl for me, Nat," Sam murmurs in her ear. He covers her hands with his on the back of the chair, holding on as he fucks her faster now.

The praise is always such a rush, so is feeling his rhythm slip as he starts to come. Natasha shivers all over again with another wave of pleasure as Sam gasps her name in her ear, ragged and breathless, as he gives up some of his control for her.

"I'm so lucky you're my girl," Sam tells her as he stills. She can feel his heart pounding against her back. "You make me so happy."

"Oh." The word slips out of her, small and shaky. She wants to say no, she doesn't. She can't. Her breath catches and her heart wrenches and suddenly hot tears overflow.

"You're okay." Before she knows it, she's in Sam's arms, cradled against his chest. When he sits back down in his chair to cuddle her, she's vaguely aware that he put himself back together. One of them is together.

"I'm not," she manages to get out. She promised to be honest.

"Okay, you're not." Sam leans over and tugs a blanket out from the bottom shelf of the end table by his chair. "But you're safe," he says as he wraps her up. "Believe me?"

Natasha nods against his chest. The tears and the sobs keep coming. It's only happened once before and she hates it but she knows she needs to let it come. Sam rocks her gently and strokes her hair while she cries.

"I would never let anything bad happen to you," Sam says, sparking a fresh flood of tears. "Not if I could stop it."

"I know," she manages to get out. "That's what's wrong. You care. I make you happy. It's terrible." The words sound ridiculous but she's serious. It's a catastrophe.

"Maybe then, baby." Sam's voice is so steady. "But this is now."

This is now. Natasha reminds herself of that until the tears pass. How awful it is that she makes him happy. She did it by choice, on purpose, and it's a disaster. But this is now.

"Now what's this bullshit about me fucking Rogers," Sam grumbles once she's been quiet for a while, dozing against him. Natasha giggles, startling herself.

"I was just curious. He has it bad for you." Natasha reaches out of her blanket cocoon and waves vaguely until Sam hands her a tissue from the box on the table. She blows her nose, then giggles again. "I mean smitten."

"Yeah, well, I'm not planning on fucking more than one team mate."

"What about Clint?" Natasha pulls back to bat her lashes at him, blotchy and damp as she is. "He's my best friend. At least a spanking. He could use it."

Sam gives her a long-suffering look. "You want me to spank Barton?"

"He needs a spanking." Natasha snuggles up again. "Maybe a fucking. I feel guilty for not sharing. I mean that part for real. If you ever want--I think he needs it as much as I do. He'd be such a good boy, Sam."

"The things I do for you," Sam says with a long-suffering sigh. Then he kisses her hair. "I'd do them twice if it made you happy, Nat."

 


End file.
